


One Gentleman of Genua

by Elsinore_and_Inverness



Category: Discworld
Genre: #Proteus is the worst, #Two Gentlemen of Verona, #angst, #asexual character, #implied/referenced attempted assault, #implied/referenced canon character death, #vetinari is a witch, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:15:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23449159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsinore_and_Inverness/pseuds/Elsinore_and_Inverness
Summary: Hwel is still trying to produce the first play he ever wrote.
Relationships: Havelock Vetinari & Esmerelda “Granny” Weatherwax
Kudos: 14





	One Gentleman of Genua

Granny Weatherwax kept an eye on the witches of the Sto Plains. This included the almost-witches. 

Rosemary Palm was almost a witch. She understood people and knew how to make things work and fix what didn’t. She was clever and astute and a Personality. She had been friends with Esme since the Lancre witches had come home the long way round. 

Despite his rumored frequenting of Mrs. Palm’s house, Esme hadn’t expected to see the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork in the entertainment district. She had heard how much the city had changed since he had come to power.

Mrs. Palm had offered him a place on the sofa in the front room and he was speaking to her in urgent low tones. 

“It’s going to affect my reputation. I’m not sure I’m going to be able to come back from this.”

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Palm said, “it might be cathartic.”

“I can’t let my authority be undermined. It’s too dangerous.”

“That’s not what you said last week.”

“That was different.”

He looked out of place in Mrs. Palm’s rooms, but then again, he looked out of place most places if he wanted to be seen. Among the lace and tasteful wallpaper he stood out like the reverse image of a flamingo standing in the wrong kind of mudflat. 

Granny Weatherwax looked at him suspiciously. They were the same kind of shape. Tall and pointy and mostly made out of layers of black fabric.

“Mr. Patrician,” she said, trying to get his attention.

Lord Vetinari took in the witch in the pointy hat. He would have stood up, but given how his thigh was taking the autumn chill that would have been quite a to-do. 

“Mistress Weatherwax,” he nodded. 

“What would you take with you if your house was on fire?” Esme asked. 

The Patrician opened his mouth briefly as though he had an answer ready that he had given every time he had been asked that question. Then he froze for a fraction of a second, closed his mouth and, by way of recovery, asked “what kind of house?”

“Lost a pet recently, have you?”

He nodded. 

“Havelock can be a bit much,” Mrs. Palm said, “but his heart is in the right place.”

“I don’t think I trust him an inch.”

“That’s probably wise,” Vetinari put his weight on his cane and pulled himself to his feet. 

“Rather drafty in that palace of yours, isn’t it?”

The Patrician blinked. He didn’t do that very often.

“I could show you how to seal the windows properly,” Esme offered. 

“I need the airflow at night to know what’s happening outside. And I’ve been poisoned once too often to—“

“I’m beginning to wonder if you know what ‘properly’ means.”

Vetinari’s eyes widened. “You mean let the air out but keep the cold from coming in?”

“I mean let the air in but keep the warm from getting out,” Esme explained slowly. In her experience politicians were a bit dim when it came how things worked. They wrapped it up in long words like “thermodynamics” and left it for other people to deal with. 

“Why do you want to help me?” the Patrician asked evenly.

Granny Weatherwax looked around the room, clean, well-lit, as safe as anywhere in Ankh-Morpork could be considered to be. 

“Why were you upset before I came in?"

Vetinari didn’t say anything.

“I know it’s not because of anything... transactional. People see you come in here nearly twice a month.”

“I consider it my duty to uphold the legal protection and dignity of honest professionals.” He spoke with pride. “I’m all for collective bargaining. And piecemeal bargaining. And collective dissent... and condensed oatmeal dessert, if it comes to it. I do what I can to be a lawmaker who listens.” 

It struck Granny Weatherwax then that if someone was truly scared or vulnerable and there were no games to be played, the Patrician could probably be kind. The trouble was, there were always games to be played. She knew the feeling too well. Sometimes a joke’s too good and you end up running roughshod over someone. When you were a good witch that kind of thing was hard to deal with.

She didn’t say anything. Two could play at vacuum silences. 

“Hwel’s writing a play about my dog,” he said, finally. 

“A play about a dog? Like that Opera about cats Gytha was telling me about?”

The Patrician made a face. “We do not talk about _Cats_.”

“I know what you mean,” Granny said, thinking of Greebo.

“And no. Not like that at all. It’s called One Gentleman of Genua and he’s been trying to write it since I became Patrician. It’s mostly the usual sort of fare, getting lost in the woods, a boy dressed as a girl dressed as a boy—the dog’s just the most interesting part.”

“A boy dressed as a girl dressed as a boy?”

“He’s called Julio. He’s always called Julio.”

“Julio?”

“It means ‘Grune.’”

“Ah,” Granny said wisely.

Mrs. Palm went to the door to go meet a client.

“So you’ve never...” Granny asked.

“Never.”

“Me either.”

“It can’t be that unusual, can it?”

“I shouldn’t think so.” It was nice to find someone else, though. The wizards viewed celibacy as a sacrifice. To Esmerelda, sex was something she shouldn’t have to hear about or think about. 

“It seems messy and uninteresting,” the Patrician volunteered.

“Yes! Exactly! And people want to talk about it all the time in a sort of code and I’m _good_ at codes.” 

“It’s odd for an assassin. We’re supposed to be debonair and rakish, all that.”

“Like that animal we’re not supposed to talk about. He looked like an assassin.”

“What?”

“You know, starts with a ‘C.’” 

“Oh,” the Patrician sighed. “The trouble with the play is that it’s really about me.”

“ _Cats_ is about you?”

“No! Hwel’s play. It starts out with this man from Ankh-Morpork who visits Genua on his Grand Sneer and is convinced he’s in love with Julio. Julio’s young, home on holiday, semi-closeted, he tears up this guy’s letter. Then the man from Ankh moves on to Quirm and is pursuing one of the dragon girls...”

“Are you alright?” Granny Weatherwax asked. Lord Vetinari had sat down again. He was speaking quickly with little inflection. 

“Julio follows him to Quirm, sees him under this girl’s window, she’s trying to escape. He sees me... I mean Julio, hiding in the shadows—I was trying to let the girl know she had backup—and he threatens to, you know...”

“Dear gods.” Esme felt at a loss. She didn’t know how to respond to hearing decades-old trauma from one of the most powerful tyrants on the Disc. 

“I sort of froze. Like in a dream where you can’t move. We were rescued by Casanunda. That’s how Hwel knows the story.” 

“How does the dog come into it?”

“There’s a lot of puns and messing about with props. I think the joke is that dogs can’t cry or talk.” 

“That sounds horrible.”

“Wuffles loved me and now he’s gone and this play is going to ruin my life.”

“Can’t you stop it again?”

“It’s the Century of the Anchovy. I can’t be imposing arbitrary censorship. I just keep thinking of how the play will look to Commander Vimes who’s never heard me tell the story. Or for entirely different reasons, to people that might decide that I should be treated like I’m made of glass.”

“Who was the girl?”

“Her name’s Emma. She’s okay with it because there’s no identifying information.”

“Mr. Patrician, has Hwel rewritten the play since he first tried to stage it?” 

Vetinari raised both eyebrows as he caught Esme’s drift and rode it to shore. “I suspect if he were to read it alongside his current work he wouldn’t let it anywhere near a playhouse. People would think he was losing his touch.”

Witches look after each other. If they’ve managed to avoid treading on each other’s toes. They were both preservers of order. Fading into the background, using animals to know what was happening, always with respect and camaraderie. Vetinari kept the wind in the sails of Ankh-Morpork. Weatherwax steered away from rocks and reefs. They knew setting their sharp edges against each other would be the fastest way to dull a blade.


End file.
